Secrets and Lies
by Librana
Summary: 25 years after 9/11, 22 year-old Kim is fighting the World-Wide Evil Empire which is threatening to overwhelm Global Justice. But all is not what it seems. And who is the mysterious and deadly WWEE commander? Chapter 5 now up (the Day of Infamy arc is now complete).
1. Prologue Part 1

**Disclaimer: I am not the owner of Kim Possible - the Disney Company is. I simply write parodies using their characters. However, any original characters are mine. If you want to use them in a story of your own, please ask permission first - it will rarely be withheld.**

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**Secrets and Lies**

**Prologue – Part One**

The slight, flame-haired figure grimaced as her right thigh muscle twitched with cramp. Moving as quietly as possible, she shifted her position to allow her hand to rub the outside of her leg to ease the twitching. Satisfied that it would not recur, she rolled back onto her stomach and looked into the viewfinder of the Global Justice sniper rifle that was propped up on a stand in front of her.

Kim was lying concealed in long grass on a hillock overlooking an imposing military camp. Her quarry was not due to emerge from the door outlined in the scope for another five minutes, but she did not want to take any chances that she might miss him. She had been in position for ninety minutes or so following a ten kilometer hike from the drop zone where she had parachuted down from a GJ stealth fighter. The craft had left the scene and was now circling unobserved over the sea. When she gave the signal, she could be extracted from the pick-up point 5 kilometers away within fifteen minutes. She was confident that her arrival and subsequent concealment had gone undetected, but she was nothing if not cautious. Giving herself the best part of two hours before striking ensured that any suspicions arising from her arrival were long dispelled before the balloon went up. Operating in the heart of enemy-occupied Europe meant that she could not afford the slightest risk of being spotted.

She thought about her mother's parting words as she left the briefing. "Kim, Gemini's commander is a very valuable asset and will be extremely well-protected. Take him out and we deal a huge blow to WWEE's operational capability. But don't take any unnecessary risks. You are too important to us to lose. Abort the mission if anything – and I mean anything – goes wrong."

Kim was wearing her camouflage mission outfit. It was cool – for which she had become particularly grateful as the waiting time had passed and the sun shone down from a clear sky. She had quickly located a suitable spot to conceal herself within line of fire of the camp. She had a clear view of the target but was invisible to anyone looking in her direction - she was too far from the camp and too concealed. Unless they stumbled on top of her, she would not be seen by any roving patrol due to the long grass, and she carried a knife and a silenced pistol to deal with that unlikely eventuality.

Kim put the field glasses to her eyes and looked again at the scene in front of her. The camp was a large and active one, befitting the base camp of WWEE's most successful commander, with military vehicles coming and going through the main gate. Her attention though was focused on the green building in the center of the camp, and in particular, to the door facing her. Her rangefinder gave the distance as 1,786 meters, comfortably within the effective range of the Barrett sniper rifle with its single 0.50 caliber BMG cartridge. She would only need one shot, and weight was more important than stopping power. A single shot to the head and she would be on the move while the body was still falling. He would never hear the shot that killed him. She had done this many times before, and had no doubts of her own capability. To the girl who had mastered sixteen forms of kung-fu and who unarmed had been known to take out a squad of troops in less than a minute, making a killing shot at less than two kilometers was almost routine.

For a moment, she wondered about this man whose life she would end in a few minutes, oblivious to his fate. Was he married? Did he have kids? Why had he joined Gemini's insane bid to become world dictator? What made him so special that her mother was willing to risk her only child in a bid to kill him?

Ninety seconds now. She ran through a mental checklist of her status. She had stripped down the gun and reassembled it, confident that it would not jam. The scope was centered and the firing pin oiled. The gun was positioned at exactly the right angle. Her quarry would emerge from the door into the compound surrounded by body-guards – even in a secure base, WWEE were wary of infiltrators. She had seconds to acquire the target – the front or back of his head, depending on which way he was facing. Then she would make the shot, confirm the hit (though this was hardly necessary) and grab the gun. Her escape route lay behind her over the crest of the hill. Within ten seconds of the shot being fired, she would be undetectable by the camp. And less than three hours later, she would be debriefing back in Dallas.

She smiled to herself as she put down the field glasses and placed her eye to the scope. The door was flanked by a pair of soldiers and she watched as one of them turned towards the door and twisted the handle. The door opened and she took a final breath before focusing on the entrance.

Five men in military garb emerged as the guards saluted. Two soldiers moved to either side of the door and looked left and right respectively. Two more stood in front of the fifth man, looking up and down at the buildings nearby. They were protecting a young man in officer uniform. He was talking to one of the guards, stationary for the moment but turned away from her so she could only see his face in profile. His head was clearly visible through the scope.

She shifted the gun a fraction to line up the cross-hairs. Due to her elevation, the shot would enter his head just above his right ear, plough through his brain and exit below his left ear. He would be dead before he hit the ground.

One final confirmation – that she had the right person. Blond hair? _Check_. Freckles? _Check._ Boyish face? _Check._ Brown eyes?

He stopped talking and turned towards her. He was looking in her direction, piercing blue eyes staring as if daring her to make the shot. She felt exposed, as if she was standing on the hillside in full view dressed not in camouflage dress but in brightly-colored scarlet.

Her finger tightened on the trigger. A strange reluctance threatened to overcome her resolve.

_Blue eyes?_

Her finger twitched and she watched through the scope as his head ducked and a puff of dust rose up from the wall of the building inches above his scalp. His face reappeared in the scope. He smiled. At her.

Kim Director grabbed the gun and fled.


	2. Prologue Part 2

**Secrets and Lies**

**Prologue – Part Two**

Suppressing a yawn, Ron glanced out of the window while pretending to listen to the base commander who was explaining the enhanced security that he had put into place following reports of Global Justice movements in the area. He was already aware that these reports were almost certainly false – GJ infiltrators into the Spanish peninsula would have to approach from the sea and his father's floating listening devices would pick up any unusual activity in that direction. The base commander was trying to impress Gemini's son with his efficiency in the hope of preferment when Ron reported back to WWEE headquarters. Still, it was good to see that – even this far from the center – there was no lack of urgency about perimeter defenses. He had had to upbraid more than one local commander in the past for neglecting basic security. Sloppy security had nearly cost the Wielded Weapon the liberation of Japan the previous year.

The bullet-proof window was next to the door, and looking out he could see nothing but rolling hills. He frowned. Building a camp in a location that could be overlooked by an enemy with a higher vantage point was textbook poor tactics. He made a mental note to check if other bases had been as poorly positioned when he returned to Moscow.

Looking back at the other occupants of the room, he sighed inwardly and prepared to give his full attention to the remainder of the meeting. While he was not much interested in base security measures, he was keen to understand the regional security situation for the Atlantic front of the Wielded Weapon for the Elimination of Evil. Although he was aware that the first incursion into enemy territory was planned for the Bering Straits, a mere 82 kilometers in width, he also knew that his father was considering a second front while the Global Jokers were distracted and that he, Ron, would play a crucial role in that attack. The main reason for his tour of the western outposts of WWEE influence was to assess the strategic readiness of the alliance to launch a surprise attack from Western Europe. His history told him that the other option of an invasion of the Western Hemisphere from Japan would mean a long and hard-fought battle through the Pacific archipelagos. Names like Guadalcanal and Midway were a reminder that liberating the world from the evil grip of Global Injustice would not be a cakewalk.

Or wouldn't be if Ron Director wasn't involved.

That liberation was long overdue. The land bridge between Asia and North America was an obvious route and would undoubtedly be heavily defended. The Wielded Weapon were gambling that no-one would suspect an attack across thousands of miles of ocean. But then, no-one knew of Ron's unique talents, and the time was approaching when he would play the role he was destined for.

"Commander," he interrupted the speaker. "Yes, general?" replied the base commander.

"Tell me how you maintain your supply lines to this base?"

The seasoned officer looked at the youth. How was someone who could not have been more than 21 years old be a general in the WWEE army? Surely Gemini was not foolish enough to over-promote a callow youth just because he was his son? And yet, he had heard stories of the successes that were attributed to this young man. The taking of Tokyo with a daring raid that eviscerated the GJ high command before the attack proper. The subsequent capture of the previously-unknown outpost of resistance called Yamanouchi, even though the occupants had fled before they could be taken, unwilling to take sides. The sinking of the flagships of the GJ Australian fleet while still in harbor at Sydney, reminiscent of the Pearl Harbor attack eighty years earlier. Appearances were clearly deceptive – this man with the face of a child was a force to be reckoned with.

The commander passed around files to the men sitting around the table and drew their attention to the logistics reports. Ron scanned the documents and found himself impressed. The Spanish bases were connected by a network of regular convoys delivering stores including weaponry and ammunition. Although the occasional convoy was attacked by partisans, these attacks were few and far between. Disproportionate retribution followed any such attack. While Gemini regretted the excessive use of force against the civilian population, WWEE understood that the populace often failed to recognize where their true interests lay. Interfering with the Wielded Weapon was the road that would ultimately lead to GJ domination. Malcontents and vagabonds needed to be suppressed by the people themselves. Reports of atrocities against civilians in the former United States were a constant reminder to Ron and his fellow soldiers of the righteousness of their cause.

At last the meeting ended and as he gathered his papers into his briefcase, his personal bodyguard arrayed themselves around him. He found the close security irksome but humored his father who was somewhat paranoid about random attacks. Only his mentor knew how little he needed the protection and Ron was sworn to secrecy, even from his father, for now. The time was not yet ripe to reveal all.

As the door opened, and bright sun poured into the room, he stood up to leave. His cohort escorted him through the door and he turned to thank one of the guards who had been diligently securing the room while standing in full battledress in the hot Iberian sun.

Suddenly what he thought of as his "spider sense" drew his head round, to focus on the featureless hill on front of him. Although nothing was visible to the naked eye, he was immediately focused on the long grass close to the top of the hill. A warning flashed in front of his eyes, which unseen by his companions had changed color from brown to blue, and he stared at a fixed point, concentrating his mind on the hidden threat and sending out a pulse of energy to neutralize it. The perimeter patrols would find a dead body with no visible signs of injury lying next to his sniper rifle, but which a post-mortem (if one were held) would reveal that his brain had been fried.

To his surprise, he could still feel the presence of the hidden soldier. Even more surprising, his MMP was still flashing a warning of imminent peril. Instinctively he ducked, instants before the bullet intended for his head plowed into the stonework of the building from which he had just emerged.

He stood up straight and stared fixedly at the direction from which the bullet had traveled. Now he could see the glint of sunlight off a sniperscope. He could feel the confusion of his assailant, but little else, except a hint of femininity. He smiled in her direction before he was pulled away by his companions to a place of safety. The action was unnecessary. He had recognized the impact of the bullet as coming from a single-shot rifle. No second shot would be forthcoming.

He directed the base defenders to apprehend the would-be assassin but the order was half-hearted. Without doubt she had an escape route and would already by now be over the ridge and out of sight to the pursuing troops who were pouring out of the gate.

Who was the sniper? No-one had ever been able to conceal their thoughts from him before, let alone survive a death pulse.

He determined to find out more about this woman, or girl. Their next encounter would be her last.


	3. Day of Infamy - Part 1

**Secrets and Lies**

**Chapter 1: Day of Infamy – Part 1**

11 September, 2001 – 25 years earlier.

_WTC 1, New York City 0840 EDT_

Employees were pouring out of the high-speed lifts onto the 103rd floor of the global headquarters of investment bankers Canter Fitzwilliam in Tower One of the World Trade Center, as Stuart Director, manager of the government securities desk, showed his wife Amelia around the trading floor. The greying but still imposing middle-aged figure was animated as he pointed out the line of screens, filled with green and red numbers – some flashing to draw attention to themselves.

Stuart had been working long hours these past several weeks, leaving Amelia to amuse herself for too many evenings. He had leaped at the opportunity when senior management decreed a few weeks earlier that today, 9/11, would be a "bring your wife to work day" – the politically-incorrect description accurately reflecting the misogyny of the trading floor. He knew that what he did for a living was fairly opaque to his wife and twin children. They only knew that he earned handsomely from the arcane art of making money from money. This was a heaven-sent chance to bring Amelia a little way into his world.

"There are almost a thousand people working for us in this building," he explained. "Many of them are what we call "back office" – they do the paperwork associated with the trading and lots of other regulatory-type stuff. But the real heroes around here are the traders, the ones that make the money."

_Trader_ to Amelia conjured up an image of a street seller shouting his wares to the passing throng. She grinned, her husband misunderstanding the look for comprehension.

The petite and still youthful-looking – thanks in no small part to the botulinum toxin – 42-year old woman smiled at her husband's enthusiasm. In truth, she understood little more from seeing her husband's workplace than she had previously gleaned from his jargon-filled conversations, but she gained pleasure from seeing Stuart at ease in an environment that seemed tailor-made for him. She had figured out that green numbers were good and red numbers were bad, and judging from the screens she could see, it was going to be a good day. And good days meant good bonuses.

Her husband was a decent man, if dull. Actually, his working hours and income gave her time and opportunity to pursue her own interests, which were more about the arts and fashion. She was patron of the Fairfield County Arts Society, and the previous year she had contributed ten million dollars to secure a minor Rothko for the neighborhood gallery.

"Dear, let me introduce you to my star trader." She looked into the face of a tall young man, no more than thirty years old. Jonathan Harker had an air of confidence about him brought on by years of successful trading in a highly-pressured environment. He wore a Brooks Brothers suit that oozed quality and a silk tie that was loose around his open neck shirt. Jonathan looked appraisingly at his boss's wife, holding her gaze for just a second longer than propriety permitted. She felt a frisson go through her at the frank sexual invitation in his eyes. Stuart's working hours meant that she would frequently go to bed alone. She was suddenly aware of how long it had been since they made love.

"Charmed, Mrs. Director," the trader beamed at her. Her husband appeared not to have noticed her discomfort or anything untoward. She smiled back at him, acknowledging his interest. Her tongue slid over her lips and his eyes narrowed at the unspoken promise. "Perhaps we'll meet again soon," Jonathan said politely. "I'm sure we will," answering the implied question.

"Jonathan is going to make a fortune for the firm this year. And for himself," the older man said with some pride. "And for us," he added, turning to grin at his wife. As her husband turned away to speak to a colleague who required his attention, she felt a business card being pushed into her hand.

The day was already proving to be more interesting than she had bargained for.

_FBI Academy, Quantico, Virginia 0840 EDT_

Elizabeth Director, trainee FBI Special Agent, was in her room buckling on her holster in preparation for the first session of the day – small-arms practice in the gun range. Her gun and ammunition were safely locked away in the gun room next to the range, and strictly speaking she did not need to secure the holster until she had arrived there. But she liked the feel of being ready for anything, even if it was illusory. There was an element of the Wild West about it – as a child she had loved to watch old Western movie reruns on television. Perhaps that explained her career choice, joining the FBI intern program during college and now – two years after graduation – one of Quantico's star students, with a glittering career in law enforcement ahead of her.

The attractive 22-year old brunette had always identified with the Sheriff in those movies. Though she could not deny that there were times when she had a sneaking sympathy for the baddie. The good guys were always well-mannered and constrained, never insulting a lady and never losing their tempers. Actually, they were a bit boring if the truth were told. Whereas the baddies were free spirits, looking up and down with lust at the virginal heroine, caring nothing for propriety, whoring and using foul language (or at least as foul as the mores of the fifties would permit) doing as they pleased, until nemesis caught up with them in the final reel. Did the upright folk who funded these movies recognize that the baddies were much more interesting and fun than the goodies? What sort of lessons had they given to the youth of America? No wonder the sixties counter-culture was so amoral!

One other thing she found appealing about those movies. The forces of law and order got things done. When the baddies were in town, the Sheriff would get together a posse and hunt them down. Resisting arrest would only lead to a bullet in the chest. Sometimes they dispensed with a trial, stringing up the villains on the nearest tree. This was often portrayed by the movie as rough justice, but it was clear where the writers' sympathies lay. Indeed, some of the heroes were actually anti-heroes. They cut corners and didn't always play by the rules. Frontier justice was a far cry from the soft, smug, over-paid and over-fed East Coast lawyers who as often as not would get the villain off, only for that villain to come after the hero, or his girl. Sometimes you just had to put down vermin, not pussyfoot around.

She could not help but contrast those movies with some of her lectures. A course covering human rights law – all very well but since when did the rights of muggers and burglars trump the rights of ordinary law-abiding citizens to lead their lives free of fear and interference? One thief had even managed to sue successfully for an injury incurred when he slipped on a wet patch on the kitchen floor of the apartment he was stealing from!

She knew better than to express these views in her lectures, but she sometimes despaired of the Bureau's poor clear-up record, especially when absolutely barn-door evidence was ruled inadmissible by a judge who cared more about due process than justice for the victims. If the innocent and weak were not protected by the law, then the law was plain wrong! But therein lay many of the problems – corrupt politicians protecting the guilty. Look how long it took to nail Al Capone – and then only on tax evasion charges!

Her biggest fear was that when she graduated from Quantico next spring and joined the FBI fast track program, that she would find herself locked into this world of compromise. She swore that she would help the innocent whatever it took.

Looking up into the mirror on her vanity unit, she saw the tell-tale signs of frustration in her face. Sighing, she grimaced at herself. No point in getting het up over something that was outside her control. She would be the best she could be within the framework in which she was required to operate.

She had one last task to perform before she started her day proper. She picked up her cellphone and scrolled down until she found a familiar name.

_CIA headquarters, Langley, Virginia 0840 EDT_

Sheldon Director, duty officer at the Central Intelligence Agency and twin of Elizabeth, stood up from the desk in the East Coast domestic department of the CIA that he shared with his fellow shift members in order to stretch his legs. He was covering the 9.30am to 5.30pm shift today, but with an overlap for briefing the next duty officer he would not get away until near 7pm. He had been on duty just ten minutes. His previous shift buddy had needed to respond to a family emergency so had not had the time to review recent messages with him. Nevertheless, it looked like being a routine day and not for the first time he envied his former fellow alumni of the training program who had been allocated to the more exciting foreign desks. Strictly speaking, domestic intelligence-gathering was the remit of the National Security Agency and not the CIA but recent confusion about scope creep had led the brass earlier that year to establish a small domestic department in the primarily-overseas Agency to act as liaison. Sheldon had had the misfortune to be assigned to that section.

Sheldon had applied for transfer to active service in the Moscow bureau of the CIA. He had always had a yen to see Europe, though monitoring developments in that continent for the CIA would have been almost as good. Sadly, he seemed destined to spend the rest of his career working the domestic scene, where nothing ever happened. Apart from the mostly-abortive car bomb attack on the World Trade Center in 1993 which had resulted in less than ten casualties, there had never been a successful foreign terror attack on US soil. And the security forces were confident that there never would be.

He took his seat again and scanned the last hour's messages. As usual, there was nothing very interesting. Some redneck loonies in Alabama had been firing automatic weapons into the air at a KKK rally. Nothing the local police or the FBI couldn't handle. A report that some grad students at Columbia were bringing in large quantities of cocaine for distribution to the student body. Maybe worth a mention to the South America desk – they should be able to identify the entry point for the drugs.

Sheldon was a fierce-looking man, which belied his essentially passive nature, a contradiction that had more than once kept him from harm when he rubbed up a colleague the wrong way. He sometimes wished he could be more like his sister. Betty stood for no nonsense and – despite being the younger sibling by a few minutes – was the dominant one in their relationship. She would not have settled for the East Coast domestic desk! Betty would be marching into her boss's office and demanding an immediate transfer. And their father would be right behind her in spirit, smiling at her audacity.

His right hand unconsciously curled into a fist as he thought about his father. A smug, rich bastard, who made heaps of money doing some deals which made rich people even richer, and poor people even poorer. What kind of society was it that permitted such greed – nay, encouraged it with tax-breaks! This was not what he wanted to protect when he signed up for the CIA training program after college. His heroes were the Black Panthers and the Weather Underground of the sixties and seventies, people who believed in a better society and didn't mind breaking the odd egg to make the proverbial omelet. But today, his generation was seduced by MP3 players and wide-screen TVs. Where was the anger? Where was the burning desire to make a better society that he yearned for? For how much longer would America put up with a corrupt leadership and a venal ruling class?

_Burn, baby, burn!_

One of these days, the veil would fall from people's eyes and they'll see that he was right all along.

Conscious that his mind had been wandering, he returned to his messages. One from twenty minutes ago, from Logan International Airport ATC. American Airlines Flight 11 failing to climb as instructed. Odd!

He scanned the more recent messages. Ten minutes ago – the FAA have issued a _probable hijack_ warning for AA11. His pulse quickened.

Sheldon pressed the emergency alert button and the sound of the siren drew the attention of the entire floor. The shift supervisor rushed over to his desk.

"What's going on, Director?" the suited crew-cut intelligence official demanded.

"Sir, a 767 passenger airliner has been hijacked outside Boston." He had already switched on his radio to pick up JFK air traffic control. Increasingly frantic messages could be heard asking in which direction the plane was flying. He turned to another terminal which showed radar images of the sky over the Eastern seaboard. The plane which had deviated from its flight plan was obvious from the flashing warning symbol below it. He looked at the plane's location and direction and paled. "Sir, they're headed for Manhattan!"

His supervisor picked up a red phone. "Get me Otis," he shouted down the phone. As soon as the connection was made to the air base, he wasted no time. "Scramble F-15s – we have a hijack situation. Possible suicide attack on NYC."

Another agent called across to them. "Sir, we've lost contact with the plane's transponder."

"Where was it when the signal went down?"

"Over Central Park. Heading due south ... omigod, Wall Street!"

The room went silent.

It was 8:46 am.

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**Author's note: **This story is partly inspired by Orwell's 1984 but I should also give credit to temporaryinsanity91 for inspiration from Number Twenty Three (though my story is very different). In an Alternate Universe, especially one with a significant historical backstory like this one, it is not always easy to keep the characters in the spirit of the series, and I apologize if I offend anyone with my portrayals of Kim, Ron, Betty and Gemini. They remain inspired by Bob and Mark's creations and you may rest assured that nothing terrible is going to happen to anyone except OCs.

The 9/11 sequence is based on the actual historical timeline but I have taken liberties for dramatic effect. This was a very challenging set of scenes to write – and worse is to come in Chapter 2 – and if I bring back bad memories I can only say how much those events affected me as I watched the shocking live TV with a group of American colleagues. I salute all those who lost their lives on that Day of Infamy and my deepest condolences to their families and loved ones.


	4. Day of Infamy - Part 2

**Secrets and Lies**

**Chapter 2: Day of Infamy Part 2**

_Canter Fitzwilliam offices, WTC 1 0845 EST_

As Stuart turned back to his wife, he felt the vibration of his cellphone in the inside pocket of his suit. He took it out and smiled as he recognized the number.

"Hi sweetie," he greeted his daughter.

"Hi, Daddy," came the familiar voice. "Just wanted to wish you a happy birthday."

"Well thank you, Bets. Good of you to remember." Which was more than he had done himself that morning. In his world, dominated by energetic young people, the passing of yet another year was not something to dwell on. But he could not help being pleased that his daughter had not forgotten his special day.

"How's it going at Quantico?" he asked.

"Oh, you know, the usual." Hard to put into words the intensive nature of the training she was experiencing.

He paused briefly, then "Do you want to speak to Amelia?"

_The bitch who usurped my mother's place? As if!_

"Sorry Daddy, no time ...".

_Boom._

She held the phone away from her at the unexpected thudding sound. A feeling of unease ran through her as she returned the phone to her ear.

"What was that noise?" Elizabeth ventured. There was no response from her father but she could hear a hubbub of noise. A scream pierced the sound. She felt a chill down her spine.

"Bets." Her father's voice had a strange quality to it. "Something's happened here. Some sort of explosion below us. The lights are out. I'm going to have to hang up – people are going to need my help."

"Daddy, I'll find out what's going on and call you back asap. Stay calm."

The phone went dead.

_Quantico_

Elizabeth turned to her desk and switched on the television, tuning to the local channel. Nothing. Then an announcement.

"_Breaking news. __Just a few moments ago, there was an explosion at the South Tower of the World Trade Center. I just saw flames inside ... smoke is pouring out of the building - looks like around the 80th or 90th floor. A tremendous boom - like a detonation or something. That's an fire in Manhattan a few moments ago, in the South Tower of the World Trade Center."_

No, that's wrong! It must be the North Tower!

The newscaster corrected the story moments later. _Eye-witness reports of a small aircraft crashing into WTC 1._ Elizabeth switched over to CNN and gasped at the shot of black smoke pouring out of the side of the building about twenty floors from the roof. The picture was captioned "Breaking Story: World Trade Center Disaster."

The anchor took a note from an aide and her face paled. In an uneven voice she told the world that it was no fire, nor a light aircraft, but a passenger airliner that had been seen hitting the tower. More than a hundred people were already dead.

Elizabeth stared in disbelief at the screen, trying to process what she was seeing. She could hear raised voices in the corridor outside her room as news of the incident began to percolate through the building.

She tried calling her father back, but encountered network congestion. Finally she heard it ring. She closed her eyes as she waited for him to answer. After what seemed like an age, she heard his voice.

"Bets, what's going on? Someone here says he had a message from his wife that there was a plane involved?" The normally unruffled man sounded as though he had been up all night.

"Dad, CNN is reporting that a passenger aircraft crashed into the building. You've got to get everyone out of there." She sounded frantic.

_Canter Fitzwilliam offices, WTC 1 0850 EST_

Stuart looked around him. His staff were watching him carefully, waiting for instructions.

He gestured to one of his managers. "Stephen, take the women down the fire escape. Call me when you get clear of the fire. Then the rest of us will follow."

His colleague looked uncertainly at the door leading to the exit. "What if it's blocked?"

"Then we sit tight until the FDNY gets up to us. They'll be on their way already, but it will take them a while to climb 100 flights of stairs."

Amelia stole a look at her husband. She had never seen him so decisive and, well, forceful. Despite her fears, she couldn't help but feel a sense of admiration.

"I'm staying right here with you, Stuart." Amelia was not going to leave her husband in a situation like this. Stuart started to argue with her but she stood her ground. Finally, he shrugged and let the matter drop.

Stuart remembered that his daughter was still on the phone line. He put the cellphone up to his ear and spoke. "Honey, I need you to keep us in the picture here. The power and the phones are down. We don't have TV or internet access and cellphones are the only means of communication. If you find out anything about the extent of the fire, I need to know."

Her voice assured him that she would keep him posted.

"I'm going to end the call now, to conserve battery." He looked at his watch. 8.55 am. "Call me back in say twenty minutes, even if you have no further news."

_I want to hear your voice again, in case something terrible happens in here._

Elizabeth disconnected the call and returned her attention to the television. Two talking heads were discussing how a passenger airliner could be flying so low over Manhattan. One was insisting that pilot error was responsible, the other that this couldn't be an accident.

The anchor interrupted with the news that the stricken aircraft had been identified as American Airlines Flight 11 flying from Boston to Los Angeles. The flight path should have taken the plane well north of New York City. The second talking head looked strangely pleased at the news.

_Canter Fitzwilliam offices, WTC 1 0903 EST_

Stuart's phone rang. "Yes?" he demanded. "Boss, no-one's getting out this way." His subordinate's voice was tremulous. "It's an inferno down there." He could hear screams in the background.

"Bring them back up here," he commanded. "We'll just have to sit it out."

A freak accident – a plane flying too low and hitting the side of one of the symbols of US financial power.

_Or was it deliberate?_

Stuart refused to pursue that line of thought. He was responsible for the safety of everyone in his team. That meant keeping everyone calm and not speculating about what caused this crash. There was plenty of time for that when they were safely evacuated from the building.

"Omigod."

Everyone stopped to look at the young man who was standing by the south-facing window overlooking Tower 2. They followed his horrified stare, watching in appalled silence as, as if in slow motion, a small airliner flew straight into the side of the second tower, a huge plume of fire and smoke emerging from the opposite side of the building following the impact.

At the same moment, the door to the stairwell opened and female members of staff, with the wives of their male colleagues re-entered the floor, tired and sweaty. The acrid smell of burning fuel filled the air and several of the older women looked close to collapse. Stephen brought up the rear, a look of fear on his soot-covered face.

The other men were slow to react as they turned from the shocking sight outside. The sight of their womenfolk in such disarray served only to exacerbate their fears.

The previous mood of worried but professional concern gave way to a sense of panic, as the realization that the first plane crash was no accident but a deliberate terror attack began to sink home. Someone started shouting about war. Another voice - how the f*ck do we get out of here? Sobbing could be heard throughout the room.

Stuart's sharp voice cut through the growing hubbub of scared voices.

"Okay everyone, I need you to keep calm." The noise dropped slightly.

"Let's consider what we know. A plane has crashed into the building below us. Judging from what just happened in the South Tower, this was no accident. Someone targeted the World Trade Center. We can't evacuate downwards, because the stairwell is blocked by fire. Seems our options are either to head for the roof or sit tight and wait for rescue."

"I vote we head for the roof." Jonathan Harker's distinctive tones were urgent. "They can get us off by chopper from up there."

"Yes, but only a few at a time. Stuart told me that you have almost a thousand people in this company alone. The roof will already be overflowing with people from the floors above us. It'll be a stampede and people will get crushed." Stuart and Jonathan looked in surprise at Amelia.

"She's right," her husband acknowledged. "We're much better off staying put here in relative safety. This building was built to withstand an earthquake. The FDNY will put out the fire and then get us down." He looked and sounded supremely confident. Only his wife could see that behind the veneer he was as scared as she was.

His calm authority had the desired effect, as couples sought each other out and found themselves somewhere to sit. The level of conversation did not diminish, but the tone of the hubbub became much less agitated.

Until Jonathan stood up and turned toward the fire escape.

"I'm not waiting for someone to put this fire out. I'm headed for the roof. Anyone joining me?"

The room fell silent.

As he strode toward the door, a small number of men and women rose to follow him. Others looked at each other uncertainly. Amelia gazed at him as he walked past her, trying to catch his eye to dissuade him from the course of action he was set on. But to no avail. As the last of the group exited the floor, Amelia looked at her husband.

"Are we really going to be all right?" she whispered.

He looked away.

_Quantico 0903 EST_

Elizabeth watched in horrified fascination the sight of United Airlines Flight 175 with 65 people on board flying into the South Tower live on television. Sitting beside her on the bed, an arm around her shoulder, was her colleague Drew Du. The older man had been walking past her door when he heard sobs. Letting himself in, he saw his normally unflappable fellow trainee in floods of tears while watching scenes of the burning North Tower.

"My Dad's in there," she blurted out when she saw Drew. His face showed sympathy as he crossed the room and took her hand as he sat down next to her. His expression turned to horror as the picture changed to the live shots of the attack on Tower Two. The significance of the second crash was not lost on him.

"My god, we're at war! America's under attack!" the older man breathed. His thoughts rushed to his wife and their newborn son William, living in Washington DC. Were they safe? Was anyone safe?

_Middleton, Colorado 0903 EST_

James Timothy Possible, rocket scientist, held his bride of ten months tightly as they watched the live TV news over breakfast just after 7am. They gasped in horror as they watched the second plane plunge into the World Trade Center. "Those poor people," Anne wept at the awful scenes playing out in front of her. She was completing her first residency year at Middleton Medical Center, so was no stranger to the sight of broken bodies from car crashes, but she could not imagine the carnage in Manhattan that day.

The phone rang and James rose to answer it. "Oh, hi Mum," he exclaimed in surprise. Martha Possible rarely rang this early in the morning from her home in Florida.

"Now listen carefully, Jimmy." The former NSA agent sounded uncharacteristically sombre. "You're watching the TV aren't you?" He nodded, then realized that she couldn't see him. "Yes. It's awful."

"We've been expecting something like this for more than a decade. Don't go into work today – the Space Center may be a target."

_We?_

"Are you still active, Mum?" James said startled.

"No time to talk about that now. Just keep away from strategic buildings until we know what's going on. There are rumors of other planes. And whatever you do, look after that wonderful wife of yours. I'm holding you personally responsible for her safety and I want to see grandchildren before I go gaga."

James turned to look at his wife. He blessed the day that Anne Morrow first crossed his path at Upperton University. They had been introduced by her genetics lecturer, Dr. Hall. He still could not believe that the popular and good-looking medical student had chosen him over all her suitors – him the geeky physicist with an IQ of 160. It had not taken him long to realize that she was not only beautiful but his intellectual match as well. Falling for her was as natural as breathing, and they had been married shortly after they graduated.

Anne looked back across the room at her husband. His voice showed how much he cared for his mother – indeed, how much he cared for everyone. It was the quality that made him stand out over all her boyfriends at college, the one that made her choice of life partner a no-brainer. There had been an immediate connection when they first met, as if it had been predestined. She shook her head in amusement. Love just happened, didn't it?

James put down the phone and looked soberly across at his wife. "Mum says we need to be careful today. She thinks that there's more of that to come" – indicating the TV images. "She doesn't want me to go into work today."

She stared at him, tears forgotten. James was looking reluctant to follow his mother's advice.

"There's more to your mother than meets the eye. If she says that, then we should go along with it," the red-haired beauty declared, turning the full force of her puppy-dog pout on him.

"Yes, and she says I'm to look after you," his eyes twinkling as he gave into her. He kept his mother's last request to himself.

Unbidden, his thoughts returned to the conversation they had shared a few weeks earlier. As soon as Anne completed her neurosurgery training and he gained tenure at MSC, they would try for a child. It would be a couple of years before they could start but their happiness would be complete when they had a baby. And the trying would be fun too!

James turned back to the TV. He had a feeling that the events of today were going to have a life-changing impact.

_Langley 0959 EST_

The CIA HQ was in chaos as the entire homeland staff were reassigned to deal with what looked increasingly like a set of coordinated attacks on US symbols. Immediately following the second WTC crash, New York City airspace and all airports were closed. The CIA was being alerted to more hijacked planes. The FAA had reported losing contact with two more planes – United Airlines Flight 77 from Washington DC and United Airlines Flight 93 from Newark.

Sheldon Director had found himself at the heart of the worst set of terrorist incidents in US history.

At 9.33 the Secret Service had been alerted that a hijacked plane was on a collision course with the White House itself. Before the White House could be evacuated, Flight 77 changed course. At 9.38 the plane crashed into the Pentagon with 64 people on board.

The United States announced that its airspace was closed to all traffic. Incoming flights were being diverted to Canada.

Sheldon had been reassigned to monitoring further incidents. It was just after 9.55 when reports of fighting on UA93 reached the incident room. Its passengers had become aware of the fate of the other aircraft and were determined to prevent this plane reaching its target.

He was about to pick up the phone when his attention was caught by the TV feed at his desk. He stopped and gaped at the sight of WTC 2 collapsing. His nearby colleagues stopped and gasped at the screen. The World Trade Center was supposed to be near-indestructible. _How many people were still in the building when it went down?_

And what about the North Tower?

_Quantico 0959 EST_

Elizabeth reacted with disbelief at the scenes of destruction as WTC 2 fell in on itself, a mushroom cloud of smoke rising from the collapsing building. She gave Drew a stricken look, the shock in his eyes mirroring hers, as she pulled out her cellphone and called her father. He answered immediately.

"Dad," her voice shook. "Tower 2 …"

Stuart Director looked away from the horrific scene outside the window. He watched his colleagues and their spouses. As each put two and two together, he saw their faces crumple.

"Bets, we're not going to make it out of this," he told his daughter. "You know that, don't you?"

She started to cry.

"Elizabeth, I ... we love you very much. I'm so proud of you and your brother. Tell him that when you see him."

"They'll get you out, Daddy," she was almost pleading.

"No time, sweetie. This building will go any minute. But everyone's time has to come. I'm not afraid. Goodbye my sweet."

"Nooooo." But the call had already been disconnected.

She flung herself weeping into her colleague's arms.

_Canter Fitzwilliam offices, WTC 1 1005 EST_

Stuart turned to Amelia as he put down the cellphone. She was comforting a young girl – barely eighteen – probably a secretary or a trainee. The girl was hysterical with fear, and the fear was becoming infectious as more and more of the group finally voiced their mortal terror. He turned to his wife and glanced at the window, his eyebrows raised. She nodded, and turned to address the rest of the group.

"Listen, everyone." People looked at her in surprise.

"We have two choices. We can stay here and wait for the building to collapse like the South Tower or the fire to reach this floor. We'll be crushed or burned alive." She paused.

"Or we can take control of our own destinies." She gestured to the windows.

Some of the men stood up, gripping their wives' hands tightly.

"You mean, jump?" someone said.

She nodded.

"But the windows don't open," one of the admin assistants pointed out.

Stuart pointed to his desk. "I have a key that unlocks the windows. It's supposed to allow the window cleaners to gain access in emergencies. I think this qualifies as an emergency."

His feeble attempt at jocularity had the surprising effect of calming people down.

He spoke again. "Amelia and I will be the first to go. Everyone has to make their own decision on this."

They were watched in silence as Stuart retrieved the window key and they walked to the south side window. After a few minutes struggling to turn the stiff lock, the window panel opened. Two men came over and helped him to remove the panel. The wind blew into the room, causing papers to go flying. The wind was warm from the inferno a few tens of meters away.

He turned to his colleagues.

"It's been a pleasure working with you all. And ladies, it's been good to meet you today. I just wish it could have been in happier circumstances." He gave a wry smile as he lifted his right hand up and gave a half-salute.

He turned to face his wife. "Are you ready?"

She bowed her head.

Stuart held his wife's hand tightly as they stood on the brink.

Amelia turned to him. "Stuart, I have a confession to make before we ... I was unfaithful to you."

He raised his eyebrows.

"Twice," she whispered.

"Three times." He smiled.

"No, twice – what do you mean?"

"I meant me."

She stared at him. His smile turned into a smirk.

Suddenly they were giggling like children, tears pouring from their eyes.

And eyewitnesses would later swear that among the hundreds of jumpers that morning, one couple were laughing as they fell.


	5. Day of Infamy - Part 3

**Secrets and Lies**

**Chapter 5: Day of Infamy Part 3**

_Langley 1030 EST_

It wasn't until mid-afternoon that Elizabeth was finally able to speak to her brother. Sheldon had not answered his cellphone, despite her increasingly frantic messages. She was unaware that Langley had blocked the use of personal phones in the incident room as SOP in the event of a suspected terror attack, officially in order to avoid vital messages being prevented from getting through the cellular network but in actuality to maintain control of all communications into and out of the building in case of a mole.

Sheldon and his colleagues were at the forefront of the frenetic activity that had turned the CIA incident room into a scene of controlled chaos since 8.30. For the last two hours he had been focusing on the search for any more missing planes, and trying to identify the sequence of events that had led to the series of near-simultaneous hijackings. His work was made more urgent by an NSA SIGINT intercept of a conversation between long-standing terror suspect Osama Bin Laden and an associate which suggested further targets. The possibility of more flying bombs remaining undetected was a nightmare scenario that he was tasked with ensuring would not become reality.

To his right, a harassed duty officer was coordinating the evacuation of key buildings in downtown and mid-town Manhattan – the UN building on the East River was currently his main preoccupation. Other key buildings across the United States – including the White House, Capitol and Chicago's Sears Tower – were already empty, and the President and Vice Presidents were secreted in places of safety.

To his left, his room-mate at Langley, Stephen Adams, was trying to make sense of the conflicting messages that were pouring into the desk about other related attacks. A report of a car bomb in downtown Washington DC had just turned out, to everyone's relief, to be a false alarm, as was an earlier report of a fire in the National Mall.

The room was on edge for further incidents. Trying to sort out the facts from media panicking was making everyone's jobs that much harder. The strain of being at the epicenter of the mayhem was beginning to take its toll.

Sheldon Director was about to take a short break to grab a sandwich when a fellow worker signaled to him to look up at the main video screen that dominated the corner of the room. The camera was focusing on the remaining twin tower. For a moment he could not understand why the pictures were being transmitted, until someone turned up the sound and he could clearly hear the voice of the commentator.

"… _looks like it's about to go. Oh, the North Tower is starting to collapse, the whole thing's coming down … God, there are people still in there!"_

He watched in shocked fascination as the mighty tower caved in on itself, the collapse accelerating until the building disappeared in a grey-white cloud of pulverized concrete. As the cloud of smoke began to clear, it appeared that part of the building remained intact, but it was mere seconds later before this too fell.

Everyone was sharing the same thought – the loss of life of those situated above the 93rd floor would have been horrendous.

"Hey, Sheldon," his colleague looked at him in sympathy. "Hope your old man got out of WTC 1 in time"

_Shit, he had completely forgotten that his father worked in the World Trade Center. Which floor was it?_

Sheldon experienced a whirlwind of emotions as he watched a rerun of the collapse of the massive tower, the second of the twin towers to be destroyed within half an hour. A sense of _schadenfreude_ at the sight of a bunch of financiers going down warred with his filial loyalty. If his father was dead …

Sheldon swallowed an unexpected lump in his throat. He'd always felt a disappointment to his father. He'd sworn that one day he would prove to Stuart Director that he was right about the corruption and make him realize his part in the mess that America was in.

But would he ever have this chance now?

He suddenly felt an urge to speak to Elizabeth, though they weren't particularly close. Right now he needed to talk to family. Did she know what had happened to their father? Surely, the FBI must already be involved, but she's only a trainee.

He took out his cellphone but remembered that the signal was blocked. Sighing, he replaced the phone in his coat pocket and turned his attention to the monitors on his desk. The CBS newsfeed was displaying in one screen, while others were filled with constantly scrolling messages – ATC chatter, FBI reports, messages forwarded from the State Department of international reactions to the US news. A frantic message from the Fire Department of New York saying they had lost touch with over one hundred fire fighters when WTC 1 collapsed.

Sheldon felt disoriented. The enormity of what he was living through was beginning to overcome him. He suddenly felt a wave of anger sweep through him. The authorities were supposed to protect people from things like this! He would bet a large sum of money that the politicians and the billionaires were safely ensconced in bunkers somewhere while the rest of the country wondered where the next attack was coming from.

"Kill the f*ckers! Kill them all!"

His neighbors turned to stare at the shouting man with red-rimmed fatigue-filled eyes.

"String up the bastards!"

His shift supervisor called to his two adjacent colleagues.

"Adams, Whyte, get Director out of here." A Vietnam veteran, he knew battlefield stress when he saw it.

Stephen and Jon took Sheldon by each arm and led him out of the room and into a small office to the side. Jon filled a cup of water from the cooler and gave it to Sheldon, who drank the entire cup in a single gulp. Sheldon flashed an apologetic smile at his colleague, who refilled the cup and handed it to Sheldon. This time, Sheldon drank more slowly, taking deep breaths between sips.

"Are you okay to go back in there?" Stephen enquired.

"Give me five, guys," he responded. "You can leave me; they need you back in there."

He saw the hesitant look that passed between the two of them.

"I'll be fine. I'll be fine."

He suddenly recalled that his father worked on floor 100 of WTC 1. Without a shadow of a doubt he was dead.

Suddenly he was weeping openly, his head in his hands.

Jon was already on the phone, calling for Medical.

"We're getting you out of here, Sheldon," he declared firmly.

There was a knock on the door and two medics entered. One rolled up Sheldon's sleeve while the other took a syringe and antiseptic pad from his bag. Ignoring Sheldon's protests, he gave the agitated man an injection. Addressing the two CIA operatives, he told them that they would take Sheldon to the sick bay where he would sleep from the effects of the sedative.

_Langley, 1430 EST_

Sheldon knew nothing of the next several hours until the buzz of his cellphone wakened him. Struggling to emerge from his sedated sleep, he fumbled for the phone and pressed the accept button.

"Who … who is it?"

"Jesus, Sheldon. I've been trying to get through to you for hours."

"Betty?" His mouth was dry.

"Are you all right? You sound like shit. Where are you?"

He looked at his phone – fifteen missed calls from his sister since noon – then cast his eye about him. He was lying in a bed in a ward he recognized as being part of Langley's medical facility. The last thing he remembered was being dragged away from the incident room by two of his colleagues. _I must have been completely out of it!_

"I think I was taken sick, Sis. I'm in a sick bay," he finally responded. "Must have slept through your calls."

"I've been calling since ten o'clock this morning!" she challenged.

"Yeah … Langley blocks cellphones in the incident room," he flung back.

She didn't know. She suddenly felt bad at being angry.

"Dad …," she said hesitantly.

It all came rushing back to him.

"He's dead. They're all dead." He spoke in a flat tone.

"First Mum, now Dad. Shel, it's just the two of us now." Her voice was shaky. Their mother had died of cervical cancer two years previously, but Elizabeth always swore that it was a broken heart that killed her.

"I'm sorry that Dad died," Sheldon said quietly. "But you know the whole rotten lot were the problem with America today, don't you?"

His sister was silent with shock. She knew about Sheldon's obsession with blaming the financial community and the politicians for every problem of America, but that he could contemplate with equanimity the mass destruction that had taken place that morning …

She returned to her call.

"Are you okay now?"

"Yes – things got a bit crazy in the incident room, can't remember much what happened after that."

She tried to imagine the scenes at Langley earlier that day. Who was she to judge her brother after what he must have witnessed? She remembered how she had refused to speak to her step-mother earlier. Amelia was dead too. Elizabeth felt a sense of remorse. The woman had made her father happy, even though at the expense of her mother's happiness.

Neither sibling held the moral high ground today.

"I've been given leave of absence from Quantico to organize the funerals." Her voice caught. There was little prospect of ever finding Stuart or Amelia's bodies.

There was an awkward silence.

"I'll come and help you," he promised.

Elizabeth took a deep breath. "Shel?" she asked hesitantly.

"Yeah?"

"Can we try to get along better in future? I mean, now that it's just us?"

"Sure, Betty." _I wonder how much money Dad will have left us?_

"No I mean it. Let's make more time for each other. Be more patient."

"Fine. Whatever. Now I need to get back to work. See you later."

He ended the call. She stood for a long moment with the phone to her ear before putting it back into her pocket. She felt lonely. Her thoughts turned again to the appalling death of her father that morning. A fire rose in her eyes.

_I'm going to get the bastards that did this if it's the last thing I do. Whatever it takes._

A casual observer would have seen the same tough rookie FBI agent who had risen that morning ready for gun training. A close observer would have seen a steel which hadn't been there previously.

_Four days later. Arlington National Cemetery, Washington DC._

Sheldon and Elizabeth stood side by side as the rabbi intoned the _El Mole Rachamim_, the Jewish prayer for the souls of the dead, over the grave marker which marked the symbolic last resting place of Stuart and Amelia Director. There had been no remains to bury. The grave was empty, and stood for all the hundreds of dead for whom no bodies had been, or would ever be, found. The government had offered all bereaved families the choice of a ceremony in their home town or an honored place in Arlington. Sheldon and Elizabeth had chosen to accept the offer. They both hailed from Colorado but lived close to DC and Fairfield County was also too far to visit regularly.

The service over, the siblings acknowledged the condolences of the many friends of their father and step-mother who had attended. Finally, they were left on their own.

"What are you going to do now?"

She considered his question. What _was_ she going to do now?

"I'm going to finish my training at Quantico. Then I'm thinking about applying to join this new Homeland Security department that the President was mentioning in his speech yesterday, if it ever actually happens. What about you?"

He sighed. "I guess I'll stay with the CIA – there's going to be a load of work figuring out how this week happened and who did it." He didn't mention his aim to transfer to a foreign location. Not after her expressed desire that they stay closer in the future.

"Whatever you do, please be careful," her voice a mixture of admonishment and plea. She took his arm, pulling him towards her. She stared into his eyes. They were blank but she could see the pent-up emotions behind the mask.

She realized then that she didn't really know her brother at all. And that she never would.

**Author's Note:** That concludes Day of Infamy. For those of you who have patiently stuck with me so far, the scene is set for the different paths that Sheldon and Betty embark on. I promise that you won't have to wait long for Kim and Ron to make their appearances and the pace will accelerate now towards 2026. Despite appearances so far, this is ultimately a story about the two of them.

I'm actually quite sorry to have had to kill off Stuart and Amelia. I had grown quite fond of them. Maybe I'll write a side story about the pair sometime. I gave them a Jewish funeral. Sheldon was a common Jewish American name and it seems reasonable that the Directors are Jewish, Stuart at least. It's not important to the story though.

You may have detected the influence of a certain Dr. Hall in the relationship between Kim's future parents. Any conclusions you draw from that are likely to be correct.


End file.
